


Tulip Bells And Cowrie Shells

by Langerhan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is Good at Cunnilingus (Good Omens), Euphemisms, First Time, Food Metaphors, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Other, Vagina Dentata, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan
Summary: Aziraphale is in love with Crowley, which means he loves all of him. Including the bits that didn't come as human standard.(Crowley has teeth. Aziraphale is delighted.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 203
Collections: Crowley's Demonic Side, Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Tulip Bells And Cowrie Shells

**Author's Note:**

> The prompter asked for body horror, and this isn't that. I'd probably tag it as fluff if not for the fact it's about Crowley having a vagina full of teeth. 
> 
> Many thanks to my darling beta [Pho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/pseuds/PrincexPhoenix), who put up with just _so much_ , you guys, and was cheerful and constructive when I spent half an hour trying to decide how bad I could get with the metaphors before the whole thing would have descended into farce.

It seemed only reasonable to assume that after stopping an Apocalypse, facing down Satan, riding on an omnibus together, and braving each other's torments, Aziraphale's favourite demon might consider kissing him. He had prepared a series of shocked and pleased expressions for just the occasion. Maybe Crowley would push him against a wall again, too overcome with emotion to do anything but express it physically, and Aziraphale would gasp before melting into it. Or maybe he'd be sweet and gentle, stuttering a confession of desire, and Aziraphale would press their foreheads together, smiling into each other's mouths.

None of the ideas he'd been formulating for the previous fortnight had prepared him for Crowley's announcement.

They walked home in the moonlight from a dinner which had done some fantastic things with Thai basil. Aziraphale took Crowley's arm and leaned against him, swimming in warmth and fullness. They chatted about the wine, the two stars they could see through London's pollution, and what in all of Hell certain politicians thought they were doing.

Aziraphale put his feet up while Crowley lounged across his favourite sofa. The bookshop was long since closed, and Soho's revellers, who knew what was good for them, veered around it with nary a glance in the window.

Crowley made one of his pay-attention-to-me, consonant-only noises when Aziraphale was two scenes into Doctor Faustus.

"But come, let us go and inform – yes, dear?" Aziraphale asked. He put a bookmark in his play and waited.

Crowley sighed. He stretched. He pulled his glasses back down from where they were resting on top of his head. "I don't have a penis," he finally said, in the same studiously casual tone he'd used for announcing Lazarus was no longer looking quite as peaky.

"Oh," Aziraphale replied faintly. "Well, I suppose that makes sense in those trousers."

The next noise was more frustrated than attention-seeking. "No, I mean. For when we. You're expecting one."

When humans had, long ago, first discovered that they could make marks on bark and parchment to record the stories they told, and had used them to write tales Aziraphale had been present for, he had been struck in a way he found hard to describe. They had been shy about showing him, holding up words and asking: look, we made these, do you like them? Shall we make you more?

The same feeling washed over him when Crowley explained why he was announcing his lack of a penis; the sense that there was something waiting for him if he was brave enough to step through the door. _For when we –_

"Expecting one," Aziraphale echoed.

"Never mind," Crowley muttered. "Stupid."

"No, not stupid, just – I rather think this is a sober conversation, don't you?"

(The Ivy's sommelier was sure those two bottles of the Haut Medoc had been served to a charming middle aged couple, but she wasn't about to question it when they appeared, full and sealed, back on the shelf.)

"Oh, bloody Fall." Crowley sat up and pushed his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. "Look, forget I said anything."

"I shan't," said Aziraphale. "My dear serpent. I'm ever so glad you trusted me with this knowledge and I hope you will trust me when I say it makes no difference to me. I may not have lain with many, but I've known men who’ve had various configurations in their undergarments, and it's mattered not a jot regarding my affections for them."

Crowley had gone through an entire colour chart of pink during the short but sincere speech. At first, Aziraphale assumed it was embarrassment – that maybe he'd overstepped in alluding to them laying together, even if he'd done it in a suitably roundabout way. When his shoulders started shaking, Aziraphale worried instead that he'd upset him somehow.

It was the loud guffaw that finally clued him in.

"You thought this was one of _those_ talks? Angel, I'm a demon. You think I wouldn't have boasted about that already?"

Aziraphale hummed. "A cloaca, then?"

Crowley's giggles stopped abruptly. "You've been reading," he breathed, folding up his glasses to put them in his pocket so Aziraphale could see the glint in his eyes. "And thinking about my mystery box."

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to impersonate a raspberry sorbet. He would file _mystery box_ away for another day. "I may have done some research on the topic."

"Did you touch yourself when you thought about it?"

"Don't tease. It's unkind."

"Not teasing," Crowley said, pulling himself up so he could wander over to Aziraphale's chair. He paused, smiled, then climbed on top of him, and Aziraphale gasped quietly at the weight pressing down on his thighs. "Tell me, angel. Where were your hands when you were meditating on the subject?"

If Aziraphale had died then and there, with Crowley's hot breath ghosting over his lips and his eat-the-apple voice lingering in his ears, surely even Heaven would have understood.

"On my prick, sometimes," he admitted, and leant into Crowley's wine-dark mouth. (Between the two of them, he'd never claimed to be the brave one, but needs must.) Crowley exclaimed at the surprise with need and teeth.

"Is that yours? A prick," he asked, sounding dazed and delighted, when the two of them finally split apart.

"You mean, is that a pistol in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?" Aziraphale murmured. Now he had his hands wrapped around Crowley he couldn't stop from walking them upwards, over his almond-pointed hips and the curves of his ribs.

"No, I meant, what did Heaven issue? An innie or an outie? But," he said, and wiggled his hips in Aziraphale's lap, "I reckon outie. Unless you really have taken to carrying a pistol around."

Aziraphale pulled back, horrified. "You cannot seriously be referring to the genitalia given to me by the Almighty as an _outie_."

"Oh, don't give me that, angel. I know for a fact you once referred to it as a tulip plunger." Crowley kissed him again, warm and desirous, sharp and new. Strange in a way the ancient Greeks had probably had a word for. A strange that felt like the baths at Chassenon; like something he'd always wanted, but not realised how much until he was sitting in it, drinking wine and eating cheese with honey.

It wasn't until the following morning that he realised their conversation had never got to the part where Crowley described the elements of the tulip Aziraphale was hoping to plunge.

Kissing was a very welcome addition to their dynamic. Not too much, and certainly nothing more than a gentle brush of lips when they were in public, but it still induced shivers up and down Aziraphale’s spine every time they did it.

They were in Crowley's flat the next time the topic of tulips, the plunging thereof, came up. They watched a programme which, historically speaking, gave Aziraphale very little room for complaining and lots of room for appreciating how fun the Royal Navy had been during that century. Crowley admitted he'd always thought of Aziraphale as the seasick sort. Aziraphale had become indignant at that, there had been some teasing about sailors and docks, some enthusiastic canoodling, and then Crowley was on his knees in front of the sofa.

Aziraphale leant down to put both hands on Crowley's cheeks and pull him upwards again until their foreheads were touching.

"I'd like to go first."

"Would you now," said Crowley, one eyebrow raised.

"Unless you'd rather I not, yes."

"You still don't know what's down there."

 _It doesn't matter_ , Aziraphale wanted to say, _whatever surprise you're keeping will be delightful, I will devour you gluttonously enough to put Beelzebub to shame_ – but he didn't. If Crowley was feeling shy about it (if Crowley, who had once appeared at a debutantes party in a dress which barely covered her knickers, assuring them all that it was the latest fashion from New York, was feeling _shy_ about it), Aziraphale wouldn't push.

"You can tell me, if you'd like. You could show me, if you'd rather. Or," and he pulled his thumbs reluctantly off the beautiful points where they'd settled, "we can continue watching to see how Lieutenant Hornblower escapes from his current predicament."

"Teeth," Crowley blurted out. His eyes widened a split-second later as if he'd surprised even himself. "So that's," he made an overly complicated gesture with both hands, "that's what's in the mystery box, angel. Dental delights."

Aziraphale paused. For a few seconds he studied the anxious curve of Crowley’s mouth and the slight dimple on his brow.

“Well,” he eventually said, trying to feel his way around the edges of Crowley’s attitude, “your mouth has teeth in as well. So unless you mean to tell me you’re planning to bite anything that gets close, I’d like to continue.”

Don’t give away the sword. Don’t spend too many miracles. Don’t trust the demon you’ve been embracing for the past few weeks when he smirks, shimmies onto the sofa and starts tugging on his waistband without any reassurance whatsoever that he’s planning not to bite.

The zip crinkled like the first crack on a creme brûlée when Crowley pulled it down. Aziraphale could feel his mouth wet in anticipation. Crowley stretched a beautiful curve between his shoulders and his arse, hooked both thumbs into his underpants, and wriggled until the first few flames of hair appeared to lick above the elastic. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said, smirk barely covering the waver before he laid his modesty bare.

The bowtie round Aziraphale's neck was too tight, which was ridiculous. He'd tied it a week ago and it had been fine ever since. It could be the only explanation, though, for the way his pulse thundered in his ears and his breath caught in his chest. Crowley kicked his trousers down past his ankles and spread his pale thighs lasciviously. It was only when he shut his eyes that Aziraphale realised how long he'd been waiting and he sunk down onto his knees.

Aziraphale had been in Eden. He had seen people expose themselves on Gin Lane and frolic together in the Southwark bathhouses. He owned several hardbacks, both informative and erotic, which illustrated all manner of ways the Almighty had made humans unique. In all the millennia he'd been on Earth and the timeless time he'd spent reading blueprints in Heaven before, he'd seen nothing to prepare him for the glorious home beneath his best friend's amber thatch.

"Beautiful," Aziraphale breathed. He knew that any attempt to reach for the vocabulary he wanted would fall at the first hurdle. Crowley was delicately, _indescribably_ beautiful.

If Crowley's eyes had been open, he would have rolled them. "Oi," he mumbled instead, "are you going to sit there staring or am I going to get eaten out some time tonight?"

"Can't I do both?" Aziraphale asked mildly. He put his hands in the crook of Crowley's thighs and used his thumbs to pull the pink crease apart. The sharp little bumps inside were white and shone like the teeth of a cowrie shell. They could bite, Aziraphale was sure of it, if Crowley truly wanted them to; he was struck with a sudden fond gratitude that the Almighty had blessed her favourite serpent with a way to protect himself from the absolute worst that Hell had to offer. The pink between the teeth was lighter than anything on a human, save for the delicate cut of otoro which rolled backwards as Aziraphale got closer.

(If he put his mouth on that, the selfish, yearning part of him realised, he would never want to stop. He'd need to explore everything he could make it do until Crowley was sobbing and begging for release.)

Crowley's eyes opened lazily as if he knew what Aziraphale was thinking. "Won't bite."

"Dearest," Aziraphale said, his thumbs still rubbing slowly up and down, "please may you take your shirt off for me? I'd like to see all of you."

"If I do, you're at least taking the bowtie off," Crowley grumbled. He was still quick to reach upwards and pull his black top over his head, his gaze disappearing for only a second before it returned to the heretic kneeling between his thighs.

Aziraphale wanted to put his mouth everywhere. He had always been a selfish, impatient thing, desirous of the hot stove. Patience being a virtue, he started at Crowley's knee, landing a kiss on each freckle that spattered his leg until Crowley reached a hand up to his hair and pushed forward with a whine.

When he glanced up, Aziraphale could still see Crowley looking down, looking dazed and hungry, looking like he was ready to swallow him whole. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling in staccato.

"My dearest," Aziraphale said, because the endearments would have burst his chest had he not expressed at least a fraction of them, mumbling them into the wiry curls before his mouth, "my darling, my sweet little serpent, my love."

Crowley snorted and tensed his thighs without closing them.

Kissing the coarse hair on Crowley's mons and further down was a fun amuse bouche which in no way prepared him for the main course. Aziraphale licked gently, experimentally, upwards, and the warmth and the salt were delicious but they were nothing compared to the way Crowley rolled, bucked his hips and whined, wrapping his fingers against Aziraphale's skull with a pressure that made his eyes water.

Aziraphale looked up again and asked, "May I?"

"Satan," Crowley growled, because apparently it was the first word he could find and it demanded a certain tone, "yes, put your fingers in me, fuck me with your tongue, do whatever you like just _please_ , angel, _keep going_."

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, feeling the pleasure of trust well up in his chest, “I shall.”

Crowley's cunt was soft strawberry velvet under Aziraphale's lips. He slid his tongue eagerly upwards and inwards, running it over the pointed teeth and taking delight in the way Crowley moved underneath him. Crowley was wet enough that Aziraphale could feel it running down his chin, and he would have licked his lips but for the fact Crowley did it for him instead.

He whimpered. Both of his hands were on Crowley's thighs and clutching tightly; he tried to concentrate on keeping them there instead of rubbing frantically at his achingly hard prick. This was kissing – only kissing – with Crowley kissing back as he'd done numerous times before. (The swoop in his stomach suggested otherwise, but Aziraphale was master of his corporation.)

“Yes,” Crowley hissed, his thighs tensing beneath Aziraphale's palms, “there, stay there.”

Aziraphale kissed his lover gently once more and pulled away. “Do you think you could put your legs up?”

Crowley didn't answer but did make a very pointed noise when he wriggled his knees over Aziraphale's shoulders.

“That's better,” Aziraphale sighed. It was an easier angle to wrap his tongue round Crowley's dragée and suck his way to the bitter almond underneath. He could focus on that and pretend he wasn't grinding himself against the edge of the sofa to try and find some release. The growing heat in his belly just from kissing – _only kissing_ – was foolish but fortunately easy to ignore whilst Crowley was bucking and whining underneath him, small teeth nibbling at his bottom lip when Aziraphale widened his mouth a little to drink in more of the salted glacé.

“Fuck,” Crowley said, his thighs trembling against Aziraphale's ears, "fuck, fuck, fuck fuckfuck!"

Aziraphale was a gentleman if he was a man at all. He therefore waited until Crowley had gone limp and pliant beneath him before he kissed him gently, pulled away, used a handkerchief to wipe his mouth and observed, "Eloquent as always."

"I was going to offer to get you back, but," Crowley raised two fingers up with a minimum amount of effort, "if that's how you're going to be, you can sort yourself out."

The scorch-edged pulse between Aziraphale's legs felt like a distant, far-away thing; dessert at the end of five courses in Versailles when his belly was already achingly full. "That's quite alright. Let's get you to bed, hmm?"

"Urgh. Angel, I wasn't being serious. C'mon. Let me just," Crowley tried to pull his legs back onto the sofa and failed horribly, "alright, not that. You come to me instead. Kneel up here and fuck my face."

Aziraphale could feel his own face go pink again at Crowley's casual proposition. Carefully, he took hold of one calf at a time, folding them softly closer to Crowley's body. It was easy then to lift him up and carry him to the bedroom, ignoring the grumbles about being lifted _like some bloody Edwardian maiden, angel, sod's teeth, I'm not going to swoon_ until they faded into vague semi-coherent yawns. By the time they got to the bedroom, Crowley was breathing steadily. Reality only needed a little persuading to protect Crowley's sleeping modesty with an ankle-length black nightgown and a night cap.

The meditation of solitude and a good novel had always appealed to Aziraphale far more than sleep. Without solitude, he found most of the night occupied by watching his companion turn. Crowley looked almost innocent without the ability to smirk. His red curls spread out on the pillow like a Renaissance painting and he slept with his pink lips parted slightly.

It was ruined entirely when he snorted himself awake and blearily looked down. "Fuck's sake, angel, you know these have been out of fashion for at least a century?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "I'm sure they'll come back round any season."

"The nightgowns, maybe. This, on the other hand," he raised a hand to yank at the pompom brushing against his cheek, "has only been worn by people playing Ebenezer Scrooge for at least the past fifty years."

"It's a perfectly adequate way of seeing to one's hair," Aziraphale replied defensively before he saw Crowley's sharp grin.

"Oh yeah? I've got some other hair that could do with a bit of seeing to."

"That eyebrow waggle will get you nowhere," Aziraphale informed him sternly. "Here, give it to me if you're not going to wear it, I'll keep it with the rest of mine."

When Crowley leaned forward to kiss him chastely on the mouth, Aziraphale could feel the smile playing at the edge of his lips. "And if I do? Can I get a good seeing to? I’ll swap you a bit of rumpy pumpy for the hat."

Aziraphale put a hand across and sat up until Crowley was beneath him. At some point during the night he'd taken off his bowtie and he could feel Crowley eyeing up the pale triangle of hair visible through his unbuttoned collar. It felt oddly exposed, especially when combined with the way Crowley's hands were fisting in his pale blue shirt.

"My darling," he murmured against Crowley's mouth, "if a good seeing to is what you desire, all you need to do is ask."

The roll of Crowley's sharp hips against his thighs as he shuffled the nightshirt up felt like it would bruise. Somehow it would cut open to where the desire was pooling, bursts of purple twisting deep and low in his belly.

“Here,” Crowley said, sounding as though he was still half asleep, beautiful golden eyes still half shut. He grasped Aziraphale's hand and guided it gently to his cunt. “I'm asking.”

All of Aziraphale's senses were suddenly on the beautiful soft slide of the pads of his fingers against Crowley. He rubbed slow and slick, up and around, brushed his thumb over Crowley's clit and watched as his eyelashes fluttered. After sliding a finger in, he paused to take in Crowley's slack expression for a while before his curiosity got the better of him.

“Dearest. Weren't there teeth here before?”

“Yeah,” Crowley swallowed, stretching and making a series of incomprehensible noises as various joints clicked and cracked, “wanted to make sure you got the full demon pussy experience last night.”

The teeth had retracted, Aziraphale supposed, which was probably something that happened somewhere else in nature. (Crowley watched a lot of nature documentaries; maybe he could ask him about it some time he wasn't knuckle deep in his cunt.) He could still feel the ridges where they had been; it was tight and firm, and Aziraphale had the impression they could have taken his finger off if Crowley had wanted. He pulled his finger out to taste it instead, smiling when Crowley wriggled underneath him, smiling when Crowley smiled back, their happiness and arousal feeding off each other.

“Be more naked,” Crowley blurted out. It would have been easy for him to snap and _make_ Aziraphale more naked, and they both would have carried on. “Please.”

While he had once been a Heavenly warrior, it had been a while since Aziraphale had done any weight training. Fortunately for the both of them, Crowley's abdominal muscles were still under the impression he wasn't allowed to walk and that they had to do all the work around here, so no harm befell him when Aziraphale collapsed, laughing and apologising and kissing him between giggles.

Crowley was far more balletic than Aziraphale had been when he rolled like Lilith on top of him. Aziraphale gazed up at the gorgeous cascade of red curls and the delicious sharpness of Crowley's collarbones, enough to steal his breath as Crowley started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Were you wearing this last night?” Crowley asked accusingly at the henley underneath.

“Of course. I’m not a _harlot_.”

“Angel,” said Crowley, and rolled his beautiful eyes before going back to unbuttoning and pulling off enough clothes to have Aziraphale join him in nudity.

The only heat he could feel was Crowley's thighs; Crowley's sex pressed up against his. He could feel it rubbing against him, slick and welcoming, when Crowley rocked back and forth.

“Can I,” Crowley finally said breathlessly, “angel, can I?”

If they were clothed – if they were awake – if Aziraphale didn't already know – there were so many situations in which he could have made an actual reply. Words were supposed to be his tools; they fitted far better in his mouth than a sword ever had done in his hand. Now, though, he could only trust himself to nod and to guide his prick.

Crowley sank onto it with a smile that was close to beatific. The slick and tight slide made Aziraphale’s stomach burn every time the tight ridge dragged up along him.

“Is that,” Aziraphale gasped after Crowley had taken a couple of bounces, “darling, dearest, I can feel you–”

He could feel Crowley's tongue curling round him. Could feel the tightness clenching, close to sharp, around the head of his prick when Crowley lifted himself up. Could feel himself get light-headed when Crowley leant down to kiss him and sank down slowly, a curl of hair brushed gently against his cheek.

“My sweet serpent,” he said, hands wandering to Crowley's chest, “can you taste me?”

“Mmm,” Crowley said, and looked ponderous as he sucked. “A bit, if I concentrate.”

Sweet coffee, Aziraphale thought, and dark chocolate. Elegant pastries. That little cafe. The garden...

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale's yelp when the teeth nipped playfully. The razor-sharp pinch of them would have made a saint stutter. “You're thinking of apples.”

“I like apples,” Aziraphale agreed, dazed. 

It was easy to turn Crowley over while he was distracted. Aziraphale leaned forward and put both arms around him to guide him gently down onto the mattress. He kissed his slender neck, brushed a hand against his cheek, and pushed further in with one thumb rubbing gently at his clit.

“I like _you_ ,” Crowley gasped, and that was enough. Aziraphale was overwhelmed with a sudden bolt that made sparks fire behind his eyelids. He shuddered and spent, twitching and crashing his lips clumsily against Crowley's until their teeth bumped.

He pulled out and rolled onto his back, words having abandoned him again. The most he managed was to reach out to Crowley’s beautiful dewy tulip, but he was batted away almost immediately.

Crowley had a hand on his clit and he joined Aziraphale just a moment later, panting and grinning like he'd just discovered habanero sauce. “Hah. Fun, right?”

“I certainly enjoyed myself,” Aziraphale managed once the breath had returned to his chest. Crowley had decided to camp there and was idly snuggling while Aziraphale wrapped an arm round him. Kissing the top of his head seemed like the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you. For letting me in your mystery box.”

Crowley groaned wordlessly. The morning’s explorations had been entirely worth skipping breakfast if it meant the day could be spent with his arms around Crowley, pliant, sleepy and the sweetest thing Aziraphale had ever put his mouth on.


End file.
